


winter's queen in spring

by museme87



Series: winter's queen [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon/Dany (unrequited), Jonrya babies, Not really anti-Dany, Okay maybe a little anti-Dany, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Post - War for the Dawn, Queen Arya, R plus L equals J, Starkcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-12-18 12:11:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11874108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/museme87
Summary: The Dragon Queen comes to treat with the King and Queen in the North.





	1. Arrival

Arya frowns, staring down at the bacon and hardboiled eggs on her plate. Idly, she pushes them around with her fork before deciding she doesn’t have the stomach for food just now. It’s always like this when Jon is away. Her restlessness eats away at her appetite and haunts her dreams. To be sure, she’s well equipped to run Winterfell without him, to see to the planting of another harvest and hear the smallfolk’s concerns. It is not the state of _Winterfell_ that troubles her in his absence, but of her own. As the years they’ve shared together begin to _add_ instead of lessen as they once had in their youth, Arya finds any distance reminds her too much of bad times when they were kingdoms— _continents_ —apart. Her bed feels cold, her days too quiet. If things have gone well for him, he will be home to her and the children before night falls. Yet, it feels as if a hundred years might as well span the time of hours.

The babe in her belly stirs, and Arya must smile despite her heavy mind. She brings her hand to her swelling middle, relishing the feel of carrying yet another of Jon’s children. And suddenly her heart pangs, guilty, and Arya reaches for a slice of bread with honey to nourish the babe. Her thoughts wander sometimes, to things both good and bad, and it is usually Jon who must bring her back to the present. She supposes it’s only natural that his child do the same in his stead.

“Mother?”

Sitting up, Arya peers over Jon’s desk where she sits in his solar to the great bearskin rug where her two eldest sons play. Edric, her firstborn, meets her gaze, his gray eyes filled with a tempered curiosity. He is not her wild pup, but her sharp and witty one. The heir of the North, her sweet boy who looks so like Jon that her lady mother might stir in her tomb.

“My love?”

Edric sighs with great seriousness. “Can I send a raven to Father? He’s been gone so long.

“It has not yet been a week. He’s to return tonight.”

“What if he gets hurt? Ghost is here, not with him.”

If she had anticipated any danger to Jon, Arya would have insisted he’d taken Ghost with him. Oh, Jon would have fought her for certain; he sees Ghost’s duty as protecting the children and no longer himself. In part, Arya wonders if that’s not so Jon might slip into Ghost’s skin to ensure they are all safe, tucked away by the fires in Winterfell. And it would be for his own reassurance only, as Arya knows that she and Nymeria would see to any threat that might come to the castle while Jon’s away. Though the people of Winterfell and Jon himself have come to see her as a queen and mother to almost four children, Arya knows that _queen_ is only another role she plays, no different from Cat or Arry or Mercy. Seven help anyone who threatens her or her pups.

“I promise you he’s well and coming home.”

“If you say so,” Edric says, though his expression speaks to his doubt.

Her son now satisfied, Arya forces down some bacon, though it is a chore. On days when breaking her fast is not hard, she can enjoy some time playing with Edric and Howland before she must see to her duties. As it stands, she will have to send the boys off to their septa without a game of rats-and-cats. It will no doubt disappoint them both, as Howland had just told her not a few days ago how much he liked playing it now that she’s been made slower by her belly. Arya does not have the heart to tell him that she slows down to let him win, not because of their unborn sibling. She is only five moons gone, and though her growing belly has become cumbersome, she is not significantly less agile for it.

As she turns back to her plate to stare down her eggs, a knock sounds through the door. Howland rises quickly to open the door as she calls out her permission for entrance. In steps Samwell, begging her forgiveness for interrupting her time with her children.

Over the years, Arya has taken a liking to Sam. At first she had been hesitant because he had always seemed to be around Jon when she wished to have Jon to herself. It was not until she’d fallen pregnant with Edric that she’d come to enjoy the half-maester’s company, though by then he was Hand of the King. She, Jon, and Sam would sit by the fire in Jon’s solar until the early hours of the morn with Sam regaling them of tales of men long since dead. In fact, she had felt the first of her birth pains with Edric while Sam told them of Gendel and Gorne in Maester Herryk’s _History of the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall_.

“What is it, Sam?”

“Outriders,” he says, picking up Howland and hugging him tightly in greeting. “Queen Daenerys has arrived earlier than expected I’m afraid.”

“Any word from Jon?”

“The weather favors him. I expect he’ll still arrive later today as planned.”

Arya nods. “Thank you. I should prepare to meet the Dragon Queen. Would you see that all the last-minute arrangements are in place for her arrival and the feast, Sam? I’ll see to the rest myself after I’ve welcomed her to Winterfell.”

“Of course. Shall I take the children to their septa on my way?”

“If it would not be too much trouble.”

Sam smiles at her. “Jon would behead me himself if I didn’t assist whenever possible. He knows you’re not looking forward to this visit and worries what effect it might have on your health.”

“My husband understates matters,” she says, sighing. “And he frets like a shriveled septa.”

Arya kisses her boys soundly on their foreheads and asks that they be good for their septa and maids as they’re to receive an important guest soon. With surprisingly few protests, they leave with Sam. As the door to Jon’s solar shuts behind them, Arya begins to feel a twinge of pain between her eyes and curses her ill luck beneath her breath.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Though once they had been allies in war, Arya cares little and less for Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Southron Kingdoms. Perhaps long ago she might have found a kindred spirit in Jon’s aunt. Perhaps she might have been able to overlook a generation of bad blood between their families, to overlook the deaths of her grandfather, uncle, and aunt—all dead at the claws of dragons. In the past Arya has been known to forgive much in the name of friendship.

Yet it had not happened that way. Arya cannot say what it was exactly that turned the tide against Daenerys. It may have been the way she spoke to others with absolute authority, or the way she claimed birthright to a throne that the Targaryens lost by right of conquest. That Daenerys had made calf-eyes at Jon through the War for the Dawn factors in for certain. Arya had even gone so far as to call her the Calf-Eyed Queen in her family’s company, and would have continued despite Sansa’s shrieks to shut up had Jon not asked her kindly to stop for fear of souring Daenerys to their cause. She’d been angry with Jon after that, for days and days, because she had thought that he had meant to take Daenerys’ side. He hadn’t though, and had convinced her of that with hard kisses long into the night against piles of furs, confessing his love and loyalty. 

As she watches Daenerys dismount from her dragon, Arya thinks that she will have to suffer those looks again this visit. Her hackles will rise at the sight of it, of Daenerys’ otherworldly purple eyes dragging over Jon’s every inch. There is nothing to be done for it; Arya can’t risk their alliance. But she can take Jon to her bed and cleanse him of Daenerys’ gaze with her own flesh.

Daenerys’ approaches her, looking every bit as unnaturally beautiful as Arya remembers. They have not seen one another since before Howland’s birth, and Arya wonders how different she might look to the Dragon Queen now, three years later.

“Queen Arya,” Daenerys says by way of greeting.

“Welcome to Winterfell.”

“I thank you for your kindness,” Daenerys says before pausing, no doubt seeking out a familiar face. “Where is King Jon?”

“He’s soon to return. I’m afraid two of our noble houses had need of him to settle a dispute. We had not anticipated your early arrival.”

They meet each other with forced smiles. The years have taught her how to manipulate her features so that lie might pass as truth. Perhaps she would not fool a Faceless Man, but Arya thinks perhaps she has fooled the dragon well enough when Daenerys—still smiling—turns to the children next to her, refocusing her efforts.

“Your children? They’ve grown since last we met.”

“Aye, our eldest Edric,” Arya introduces, gesturing towards the boy at her side. “Howland, and our youngest Harlon.”

Daenerys speaks courtesies to each of Arya’s children, though Harlon is too busy trying to break free of his septa’s grasp on unsteady legs to pay the Dragon Queen any mind. Arya looks on fondly at him, her little pup not quite one year old. He is feisty, a wild little thing; Jon says he reminds him of her at that age. She loves both Jon and Harlon well for it.

“Jon did not tell me you were again with child,” Daenerys says, turning back to her and staring at her swelling belly.

“Perhaps it was too early to say.”

“Perhaps.”

Again, Daenerys’ smile falls short of sincerity, but Arya does not trouble herself with it. She rests a hand on her middle, the babe inside her shifting beneath her palm. Once Sansa had accused her of drawing needless attention to her children and pregnancies in Daenerys’ presence, telling her that she ought to be ashamed when Daenerys could not have children of her own body. As usual, Sansa had misunderstood the fussing over Edric or stroking of Howland still growing within her as animus. In truth, Arya has never set out to harm Daenerys Targaryen—and, woe, if she had—but to stake claim over the man that has always been hers. No one has ever understood her and Jon, never truly. They were _belonging_ when they were otherwise outcasts. They were _fire_ to one another in the cold. _Life_ where too little existed. Jon’s smile was the only thing that kept her tied to her past in Braavos. Because of him, she remained Arya Stark when she might otherwise have been No One. And _she_ …well, Arya has seen the scars on Jon’s body to know her worth to him.

That someone might have the audacity to think to come between them makes her blood boil. It would never happen; they are more to one another than husband and wife, than cousins or lovers. They are one in the same, two halves of a whole. A misplaced glance of a friend or stranger drives them into each other’s beds. One need only know of Howland’s conception to understand that much.

Their public expression of love, their adoration of their children, her strength, his gentleness—it had nothing to do with Daenerys Targaryen’s feelings. Sansa had been sorely mistaken. In Arya’s heart, the Dragon Queen is a nuisance, a presence to suffer, and nothing more.


	2. Glass Gardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Arya speak. Jon and Arya reunite.

Spring snows crunch beneath their feet as Arya leads Daenerys to the glass gardens. Arya cannot say what the guest rite is worth any longer since the Red Wedding, but she had offered the Dragon Queen salt and bread all the same and had shown her and her company their rooms. Now she’s left to entertain Daenerys until Jon returns home. Though she finds Winterfell to be pleasantly cool in the spring, Arya had noticed her companion shivering. The glass gardens would warm the queen better than most places, or so her lady mother had always said. For all her years in the North, Catelyn Stark had always felt the cold before the rest of them, and she would stroll around crops and flowers alike to warm her bones.

The glass gardens were the place of her mother and sister, where Lady Catelyn taught Sansa the names of plants as soon as she’d begun to speak. Arya’s place—like her father’s—was in the Godswood and Wolfswood beyond, wrapped in the bitter chill of the North. Even if the little Dragon Queen had taken well to the Northern climate, Arya would not have permitted her to go there. The Woods are a Northern place—a _Stark_ place—and dragons and their fire are not welcome. She had told Jon as much long ago, and Jon had promised her that the Southroners would not tread on their sacred land. In her mind, the glass gardens have already been touched by the South; it feels less like an invasion of her home with Daenerys _there_.

“How has Jon been?” Daenerys asks as Arya leads them through the door to the gardens. “His letters have been infrequent.”

“Well,” she answers, her palm moving to rest upon her stirring babe to settle it down. “Busy.”

Daenerys follows Arya’s hand with her eyes and looks away suddenly. Arya frowns before realizing that Daenerys must have thought she meant it as a slight—as if Jon had been _busy_ putting a babe in her. Though she thinks to correct the queen, Arya says nothing. If she did, they would have to acknowledge this thing between the three of them, their mutual love and desire for Jon. It was not a conversation she wished to have. She would not be kind to the queen, and the satisfaction of finally giving breath to the words she longs to say is not worth bringing conflict to Jon’s crown.

“I hope our visit will be fruitful. He and I have much to discuss,” Daenerys says, her voice slightly chilly. “And I hope to know the children better. I look forward to fostering them at Dragonstone.”

“My children are of the North,” she says, her voice sharp and steeled as Needle. “And in the North they shall remain until they are men grown who no longer listen to their mother.”

“It unsettles you—your children being with family?”

Arya longs to slap the stupid, feigned-innocent smile from the Dragon Queen’s face. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, her words failing her. Arya thinks of Sansa, of how her sister would know what to say to turn the tides of this exchange in her favor. Though both Old and Many-Faced Gods have given her gifts, courtesies had not been one.

 _Play the queen_ , she thinks to herself. _It is a face like any other_. Arya swallows hard. She tries to smooth her features into serenity, into a pleasantness that belies her heart.

“It is _because_ of family that I cannot allow my children to go South. I’m sure even on Essos you’ve heard of what happened to my grandfather and my uncle, my lady aunt, my brother and my mother. Targaryens and Lannisters murdered them all.”

“I will grant you the others, and I am sorry for any part my family played in their deaths. But Jon’s mother died in childbed. That death is not by Rhaegar’s hands.”

“Your grace?”

Daenerys seems surprised at the term and hesitates. “Yes?”

“When next you meet my sister, ask her how freshly flowered ladies fair against the desires of princes. It is always as sweet as songs in the beginning.”

“Perhaps it was love through and through,” Daenerys says, her voice growing darker at the insult to her brother’s memory, at the comparison of Targaryen to Lannister.

  
“Perhaps,” Arya concedes. “But if it wasn’t, would it have mattered?”

Arya cannot stand to look at Daenerys, at the various expressions playing out on her face. Once anger, then something that might be understanding. In the end though, it all returns to a frosty toleration. Turning, Arya suddenly sees Ghost trotting towards them, and further in the distance Jon. She smiles softly as Ghost bumps into her arm, begging affection from her. If he sees Daenerys, he does not let on.

“They do not like me,” she says solemnly, looking at Ghost with a kind of longing. “I thought the connection to my dragons might make them warm to me.”

“Direwolves are not dragons.” Arya scratches Ghost behind the ears. “They do not concern themselves with the blood flowing through a person’s veins. The Old Gods sent them to us, the children of Ned Stark, and it is to his children they are loyal.”

“Jon is not Ned Stark’s son, yet he has Ghost.”

“The Old Gods sent them to _Ned Stark’s children_ , all six of them,” she repeats.

Perhaps Daenerys has more to say to her, but Jon arrives and spares them both further barbs. He greets them both with smiles and chaste kisses to their cheeks. By the looks of it, he’s just returned home, and Arya has no doubt that he came immediately to the gardens after discovering she is entertaining the Dragon Queen.

“Well met, aunt,” he says. “Welcome to Winterfell. I hope the King’s Road treated you and your court kindly.”

“Thank you.” She smiles, her face glowing with tenderness. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Jon. I only wish it were better tidings that brought us together again.”

Jon nods. “I’d like to know what troubles you.”

“Much and more I’m afraid.” She turns to Arya. “Perhaps we may speak of these matters privately?”

Even if it is meant as a slight against her, Arya is grateful for the opportunity to leave. She does not enjoy this game, nor is she particularly good at it. She is good at survival, and only when it is life or death can she truly play her part well. The North is strong, and Jon’s claim made stronger by their marriage. Daenerys Targaryen is no real threat to them, not now at least. Once Arya had forced herself into a chair at Jon’s war table during the War for the Dawn and would again if need arose. But for now she is happier practicing with Needle and Dark Sister, listening to her children tell tales, and speaking with the smallfolk.

“It is fine, Jon,” she says, placing a hand on his arm. “I grow weary and should rest before the feast.”

“You’re certain?”

“Nothing would prevent me from staying if I wanted to.”

Apparently satisfied, Jon draws her into his arms and soundly kisses her temple. Arya thinks he must be relieved that there is no argument between her and Daenerys just yet. Though he tries, Jon does not play the mediator well. It is best if he deals with the Dragon Queen on his own. And Arya is only too content to pick up her youngest and take him to bed with her and dream sweet dreams of when this visit is over.

 

~*~*~*~

 

In his waking hours, Harlon reminds her of her brother Rickon—wild and tempestuous with a will unlike any other. But when he sleeps, her babe is sweet as summer. Arya watches from her pillow next to him, at the soft rise and fall of his chest. His lips move as if he dreams of suckling her, and it makes Arya long for the pleasant feel of a child at her breast again.

 _Soon_ , she thinks, her hand straying to her middle. _Four or five moons, and it will be done_. If the Old Gods are good, the babe will be healthy like its brothers had been. If the Old Gods are good, she will survive the birthing bed once more.

Jon doesn’t understand her. He understood the need for an heir and another little one should the worst happen, but he never understood her desire for a third, nor for the one growing inside her now. He would put her off with talk of risk, of his own mother dead in childbed, of her sons’ need of her. Jon speaks to her as if she doesn’t know all that, as if it’s not her the bears down in their bed chamber in pain and blood until her throat is hoarse from shouts and grunts and her head swims from strain.

In truth, _no one_ truly understands her. When her belly begins to swell _again_ , they give her strange looks, as if a woman like herself—wild and with a love for sword fighting—should not want to have more children than is her duty. Once, she might have thought the same of herself. That had been before Edric.

Though it had felt strange at first, Arya had been overwhelmed by the idea of carrying part of Jon _within_ her. Needy, unrestrained Arya who could never get quite _enough_ of Jon—her Jon, who she’d been separated from for so long, who she had thought she’d lost time and again—finally found contentment. She’d been happy with Edric, pleased with every ache, pain, and soreness because of what it meant. As she swelled, her thoughts strayed to Jon. _Jon, Jon, Jon_. She looked at herself in the looking glass and saw him. She’d never been a stranger to discomfort, to pain, to her body transforming based on her needs, but she _had_ been a stranger to this sudden, unfathomable closeness—an intimacy she had never quite known, but one that could not be taken away from her now. And even with a new babe in her arms—her little Edric who was a dream—she still felt that emptiness in her, that absence of Jon once again.

Arya dreaded the birth of this one for that reason. Over the years she’s begun to grow content with each additional child, the way they cling to her and ask her questions. The way they call her mother and Jon father, the way they look so like her and Jon that she cannot tell what is her and what is Jon any longer. It all brings her joy she would not have thought possible, but sometimes it is still not quite _enough_.

Harlon shifts and sighs in his sleep, and Arya draws herself closer to her youngest pup. She curls herself around him, Harlon burrowing against her at the feel of her warmth. Arya breathes out deeply and closes her eyes. With Harlon like this, she is certain she had not been wrong to tell Daenerys that her children will never go South. Her temper has probably caused Jon some problems with his aunt. Arya is all too aware that her outspokenness can fill a room with tension. Frequently it falls to Jon to dissolve it so that affairs can run smoothly again.

She was never meant to be a queen. Though her mother tried to groom her well, Arya knows that the only womanly art she’s skilled in is being desirable enough to her husband to bring him to her bed. Lady Catelyn might have even been happy with what she has accomplished, with the growing number of children she’s birthed, if it had not been for the fact that she had taken _Jon_ to husband and given _him_ babes.

For a moment, she feels like a failure to those who matter most to her. To Jon, for not being a better player of the game of thrones. To her lady mother, for not having married a man who would have pleased her. To her sister, for failing to be proper enough to avoid shaming her. To Bran, for reasons that have yet to come to pass that only he can properly see. Perhaps the only person she has not disappointed is her lord father because she _has_ become queen, _has_ sons who are little princes. And most importantly perhaps, because she has _survived_ , has _lived_ by his teachings, and has tried the best she can for his people.

Thoughts of her father end abruptly when the door to her bed chamber opens. She knows the sound of Jon’s walk by heart and thinks he must have come to look in on her before he attends to further duties. Arya knows she should help him, but the thought of playing a part right now makes her stomach twist up in knots. She is not a very good wife.

“You should have wed Sansa,” Arya announces, voice not too loud to avoid waking Harlon.

Jon’s laugh in response is nearly loud enough to wake the dead. The absurdity implicit in it brings a calm over Arya. Jon does not think he’s wed the wrong sister then. She can’t quite help but smile.

“Sansa?”

“She’s better at this than I am,” Arya explains. “It’s not too late, you know. She’s newly widowed.”

“And set aside my pregnant wife and mother of my sons?”

“No one will mind.”

Arya knows that for a lie. Though she fails to be a queen in most matters, the North loves her. The Free Folk love her. Women are different in the North, and the type of woman she is has earned her respect among them. It’s only when Jon is forced to treat with the Southroners that she feels her failings acutely.

The bed sinks beneath Jon’s weight. Arya rolls onto her back so that she might look upon him. He does not seem any worse for wear for being in Daenerys’ company. Their conversation must not have been too strained.

“Then I’ll call my council immediately before the Lady of the Vale receives any other offers. But what am I to do with you, little wolf?” Jon leans down and captures her lips with his own. “I could make you my mistress.”

“I’ll allow it,” she says, blinking her eyes slowly at him and smiling.

“I’ll be sure to take it under advisement then,” Jon answers, laughing again and shaking his head.

For what must be the millionth time, Arya realizes she is in love with this man. Her brother, her cousin, her husband—all titles that do not truly matter. In the end, it is only _Jon_ that matters to her. This sweet man who all the North knows to be besotted with her. They have loved each other for a thousand years. To hear Jon tell it, he’d fallen in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her as a babe. For her, she had never known a time before loving Jon. It in only with time that that love has grown and stretched in new, surprising ways.

“Kiss me again,” she demands.

He does, slow and steady. Each press of his lips against her own breathes life into her desire. It blooms within her, releasing a sweet, wet warmth. Arya shifts further towards him and lifts herself up, seeking control. Jon only smiles against her lips and gently pushes her back to the bed.

“Later, I promise.”

Arya frowns and thinks to protest. It’s only when Jon’s attention turns to Harlon that Arya is content with his promise. Watching Jon watch their children brings her more joy than almost anything. Now _she_ smiles softly, her eyes locked on Jon’s hand stroking Harlon’s dark hair.

“The boys are well?”

“Yes, though Edric has missed you fiercely.”

Jon nods. “I’ll make time for him tonight. We’ll go to the Godswood together and tend to Longclaw.”

“That will make him very happy.”

Jon dips his head to kiss her brow, his attention now turning back to her. Arya loves when they are together, alone or with their children. Jon can’t stop himself from touching her, lavishing her with attention. It’s as if he might break if he cannot feel some part of her under his hands or lips, against his side or with their shoulders touching. In greater company, he attempts to restrain himself, though any semi-frequent visitor to Winterfell knows of the King’s great love for his queen.

“And you’ve been well? I don’t like leaving you like this.”

“As well as can be expected with our current guests.”

Jon frowns. “Let’s not speak of it. I want to know of the babe and you.”

“We’re fine,” she says, bringing his hand to her belly where the child shifts beneath her skin. “See?”

He stares at his hand as it flexes and spreads to cup her rounded skin. Arya wonder what he thinks. Sometimes Jon gets like this—lost, staring at their children or at her when she’s thick with them. On rare occasions when she’s atop him, riding him and taking her pleasure, he’ll whisper lust-filled words of her beauty like this, swollen with his babe, her breasts full and face aglow. More often than not though, he just speaks of her loveliness and does not mention her delicate condition and what it’s done to her. Arya thinks its fear that silences him, fear that this babe within her that makes her so beautiful to him might be the thing that tears her open from within and bleeds her out. Arya does not know how to reassure him, in part because there is no guarantee that she is safe from that fate, and so she just tries her best to love him and understand.

“Do you know what she wants?”

Jon does not look at her, only continues to stroke her belly softly with his thumb. “Essos.”

“She wants Essos?”

“No,” Jon explains, shaking his head. “There’s trouble from Essos. She upended much there before coming to Westeros. When she left Meereen, she left herself open to her enemies.”

“This is not the North’s problem.”

“Not now at least, but she has asked for our support.”

“And what have you said?”

“I will take it to the council. I’ve made her no promises.” He kisses her head. “But that is not for you to worry about.”

“I wear a crown too, you know.”

“I do, and she knows you and I will discuss this at great length. For tonight though, I want us to enjoy the feast. The game can wait until tomorrow.”

Arya huffs. “The game never waits, Jon.”

“Then let it be my concern for now,” Jon says, standing. “I have to check on the preparations. I’ll be back before the feast.”

Arya reaches for his hand and squeezes before letting him go. Watching him as he leaves, a restlessness fills her. Though she knew better than to think Daenerys would bring her court and council with her if the visit was only about Jon, Arya almost wishes Daenerys’ presence was due to her desire for her nephew. At least Arya felt equipped to handle that problem. But Essos? Possible war? That was another matter entirely, one she had no desire to take part in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after rereading one of Cat's early POV chapters, I realized I got the temperature of Winterfell a little wrong. If you'd like to throw stones at me for it, you may lol. 
> 
> Also, I'm sideblogging on tumblr at jonryatrash.tumblr.com. All Jonrya, all the time. Mostly reblogging, my Jonrya reread 2017 meta, and fic previews. 
> 
> Next chapter: Jonrya smut, I swear it.


	3. King Takes Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya share good news and some intimacy.

They will think her gown a scandal. To her, it’s a thing of beauty—gray and heavily embroidered, it’s neck wide and plunging low. Her belly has not grown so large yet that it cannot be accommodated, but her breasts are a different matter. They fill her bodice near to bursting, the exposed tops plump and milky white. She’s captured many a man’s attention since she’s flowered, but Arya suspects tonight she will command the Great Hall. 

Tonight Northerner and Southroner alike might see her as the queen she’s meant to be. Tonight she may be a proper beauty. Men might think Jon lucky to have a wife like her rather than pity him for not having wedded the prettier of the Stark sisters. With her hair piled upon her head, with her crown, and her neck adorned with simple jewels—she might not pale in comparison to Sansa. They might look like proper sisters, one warm as the sun and the other fair as the moon. Sansa might even be proud to kiss her cheek and call her sister like this. That is, if it were not for the cut of her gown. As it stands though, Sansa would likely gasp and demand propriety. Arya knows her lady mother likely stirs in her grave. But she does not allow herself to be troubled by her lady mother or Sansa because _she_ feels pleased with herself for once. Arya rarely feels so good in dresses. 

She’s adjusting her crown when she hears her name called and the door to her chambers open. _Jon_. Turning, her eyes meet him, and Arya is struck by how handsome he looks. Though he has taken the Stark name, Jon still wears black as much as he ever had on the Wall. And it suits him, his dark hair and his gray eyes against the black of his fine clothes. He is every inch a king, though much of that has nothing to do with the fabrics he wears and everything to do with how he acts, how he carries himself. Jon gets that from their father, not some dragon prince. What Jon is goes far beyond the blood in his veins. 

So taken in with him, Arya hardly notices how taken he is with _her_. When she sees how hotly he looks at her, Arya blushes. Not prettily like Sansa, but flushed an embarrassing red. Oh, she meant for him to have this reaction to her, of course. She _always_ does. Yet it continues to catch her off guard, even after all these years.

“Seven hells, Arya! I’m to enter a battle of wits with _Tyrion Lannister_ over dinner, and your teats are nearly spilling out of your gown.” Jon breathes deeply. “If it weren’t for the fineness of the gown, you might be mistaken for some Braavosi courtesan.”

“Would you have me change, husband?”

He takes her hand and pulls her to him, gathering her in his arms and smiling wickedly. “Don’t you dare.” 

“As my king commands.”

Though their blood runs hot, Jon kisses her sweetly upon the lips. It’s only when Arya nudges his nose with her own that he takes her mouth with some force, his teeth answering her bites with his own. Arya spreads her palms flatly against his hard chest, his muscles lithe beneath the fabrics of his doublet. With his arms around her, she tries to press herself into his front as closely as she can, wanting to feel the length of him against her. They will not be able to touch like this in front of both courts. Though Jon’s not shy around his own men, behaving like this before the Dragon Queen and her company would surely be an insult.

“Jon,” she whispers.

He moves his lips from chin to cheek, to temple and neck. If he hears her at all, Jon only takes it as encouragement to continue his ministrations. And oh, would she allow it if she could. If they did not have hundreds waiting for them, she would have her lord husband now. Soon they are due in the Great Hall for the feast though, and Arya understands the importance of the event. She will not be the reason for any difficulties he may have, no more than she already has been.

“Jon.”

Jon hums against her skin to acknowledge her, the feel of his breath against her skin causing her to sigh. Unable to quite help herself, she bears her throat to him. Her eyes close as he nips at her flesh, biting then kissing her as if it might be a balm to the pinch of pain. But the pain is too sweet to be a bother, making her warm between her thighs. She is thankful for Jon’s strong arms around her, holding her to him. Nowadays, Arya finds herself dizzy at his touch, dizzy and hot and hungry.

“Jon, if you do not stop…”

He groans. “Hush.”

“We must leave for the feast soon.” 

“It will not take long when you look like that.” 

Oh, she has heard _that_ before. Rarely does it end quickly when Jon promises it shall. Her husband takes his time with her, and for that she is grateful. He worships her longer than any septon does at the alters of the Seven. He toys and teases and builds her up only to bring her down hard into a trembling, shuddering mess. It’s only then that he follows, spilling himself within her. Jon loves her, well and truly. When he looks at her, it’s as if she has hung to moon itself in the sky. Sometimes she will tell him that she is not so special, only to have Jon silence her with a kiss and press her onto their bed.

“Jon,” she says again. “I have news.” 

Jon lifts his head from her neck to look at her. “News?” 

“Yes,” she says, nodding shyly. “Good news, I think.” 

“What is it?” he asks, running his fingers carefully along her hair to avoid messing it. 

She gently withdraws herself from his arms and walks to her desk. There she has a small, ironwood strongbox that she’s left unlocked. She lifts the finely designed lid to pull out a roll of parchment. Though she’d only just received it two days ago, Arya has read the parchment a dozen times or more, enough that she can nearly recite it from heart. 

“It’s from Bran,” she explains, offering it to Jon. 

With great nervousness, Arya watches as Jon unrolls the parchment. She breathes deeply to steady herself, her stomach filled with butterflies. It’s as if she can read the words alongside him. Jon will likely wonder why she stopped his affections for this, a message otherwise unremarkable if it were not for the final lines. Arya is grateful to her brother for this, especially now when their lives have suddenly become so entrenched in the game. It is a reminder of what is truly important— _pack_. Politics be damned, she will not allow this visit to overshadow what surely must be joy.

“Give my love to my nephews,” Jon reads. “Take care of yourself, sister, both you and your little prin—”

Jon looks to her with wide, gray eyes. His lips part in surprise. Nodding, Arya can’t quite hold back her smile. _Yes_ , she thinks. _Princess. You have read it right, my love_. At her confirmation, Jon grins and looks at her almost shyly, as if they have not spent years naked in each other’s arms making love and babes.

“ _Arya_.”

It comes out as a sigh, a happy one and filled with a sort of awe. She does not know why he looks at her like that, like she’s arranged this all herself. He had no small part in the babe’s making. Though she cannot say for certain which time it was that gave them this little one, Arya suspects she knows. Jon has never been able to resist watching her challenge some of the finest knights in the North with live steel, but that day it had been _Needle_ she’d used in place of Dark Sister. Needle was _their_ sword, and Jon had taken her to their bed, had loved her well as a spring snow fell outside their window.

“I said it would please you.”

“ _Please_ me? That doesn’t begin to cover…”

As he trails off, Jon steps before her, takes her cheeks into his hands and kisses her soundly. Arya knows it more than pleases him. With each boy, they both had wondered if they would ever have a daughter. This time they had not even expected a girl as they had with Harlon. Long ago she’d stopped listening to what the Free Folk women said of determining whether the babe would be a boy or girl. She noted no real difference in how she’d carried any of her children nor in the shape of her belly. She didn’t _feel_ any different this time. But _this time_ it would be a girl. More than for herself, Arya is happy for Jon. Jon, her sweet husband, who always seemed a little sad to think they might never have a daughter.

When he pulls away from her, his eyes fall to her middle. Arya places her hands on her hips so that he might look and touch unobstructed. At first it seems as if he can’t quite bring himself to touch her, but Jon finds himself and soon reaches out for her swelling belly. His touches are tender as they have always been when he touches her like this. Perhaps it feels different this time though, as if he feels some sort of special reverence for the life she carries.

“Have you had time to think of names for her?” he asks. “I know it’s still early, but…”

“I have.”

“Tell me. I’d rather not wait until she’s here.”

“Lyra, if it pleases you.”

Jon smiles and nods, his hands stroking her stomach. “Another Northern name. It will suit her.”

“And for Aunt Lyanna,” Arya adds, moving her hand to cover his, pressing him more firmly against her. “The first part of her name for her. The second so that she might be her own woman someday.”

“Like Father and Edric then.”

“Aye, like that.”

For a moment, Arya feels a bit weepy at the thought of her father and her children. Jon does not give her time to form proper tears though before he has her in his arms again. His mouth moves against hers, and this time Arya can tell by the way he kisses her that he does not mean to stop until he’s had her. His hands are at her sides, moving up and down her waist and dipping lower to cup her bottom. She gasps into his mouth at that, a wet warmth blooming between her legs. Arya cannot manage to remind him again of their duties; Jon is already too busy leading her backwards towards their bed, punctuating their journey with kisses, licks, and bites.

Before nudging her to sit on the bed, Jon takes her skirts into hand, lifting them higher and higher. They rise slowly, each inch bringing her more anticipation. Arya does not know where to place her hands, whether on his arms or his chest or his neck. Sometimes she is at a loss for what to do when she’s so very overcome by _Jon_.

“Take off your smallclothes,” Jon says. He then dips his head so that his mouth rests against her ear. “And leave them off.” 

The sound of his voice, raspy and heavy with lust, makes her throb. Arya whines, her eyes shutting as she does as Jon asks of her. Though her hands tremble as Jon’s fingers lightly play over her skin as he holds her gown, Arya somehow manages to slip them off, and they slide easily down her legs. Where often he is usually rough to push her onto their bed, this time—like all the other times she’s been with child—Jon gently nudges her back to the edge of the bed. As she sits, Jon falls to his knees before her. 

“Jon, what—”

When he pushes her legs open wide, she has her answer. His beard scratches the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, but his kisses are sweet. He presses a trail further up and up until he can feel his breath against her heat. Gently, he lifts her leg over his shoulder as she feels his mouth at her cleft.

And, _gods_ , is she wet; he must surely be able to taste her dampness without even pressing inside her. With the first brush of his lips there, Arya gasps and drops back onto her elbows. And when he licks her open with the flat of his tongue, she does not even know what kind of noise it is she makes, some kind of moan and pant and cry all tied together. At that, Jon laughs at her; she can feel it against her. If it were not for his eager tongue, she might kick him for his amusement when she is so overwhelmed. Instead, she settles on lifting her other, trembling leg to his shoulder.

“Arya,” he says, and it might tickle it is so soft and light against her flesh it if did not make her _ache_. “Watch me, wife.”

She does. She _tries_ , but she is a little too swollen to look at him properly between her legs. She even lifts the gown over her belly in hopes that her view might be less obstructed by the fabric, but to no avail. Arya huffs and whines and grabs at the bedding in her frustration.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I’m too…”

“Too?”

“ _Pregnant_.”

Jon smiles again. She can tell. And her present state must please him so because he returns his mouth to her and eagerly sees to his husbandly duties. Arya gives up trying to prop herself up to see him and lies back, her eyes closing so that she may just enjoy his attentions.

He knows every part of her, what pleases her and what drives her half-mad with too-much and not-enough. Jon makes her sing, her song one of moans and gasps of his name. She’s spread wide under his touch, and he brings her closer and closer still.

But Arya _wants_. And when she _demands_ , Jon smacks her bottom and calls her greedy. But she does not demand now; she does not remember the words to demand. Arya only knows sounds, noises little different than Nymeria knows how to make. Sweet whines and pants. And occasionally, she manages _Jon_ , but it seems a mouthful to her when he has her like this.

Arya feels the tell-tale building within her, the promise of spasms that escape as quickly as she thinks she might grasp them. She does not know how to tell Jon that she needs him, needs his cock within her. She does not think she can do without it, without his sharp thrusts and gray eyes locked on her own. She wants _filled_ , but when she opens her mouth to tell him, she only manages to gasp.

With a final flick of his tongue, Arya feels the spasms upon her unexpectedly. She cries as she shudders against Jon’s mouth, her hips not quite able to be controlled. Her legs lose their strength, and Arya covers her eyes with her wrists, trying to ride out the last of her pleasure. 

Jon stays upon her, kissing her drenched folds through the last tremors. But it’s soon _too much_. She is too swollen down there, too sensitive. When she whines at his touch—a whine altogether different—Jon withdraws from between her legs. Arya tries to reach for him, to pull her to him so that he might soon fill her still, but Jon takes her hand and lifts her to sitting. The kiss he gives her—tasting of her musk and heat—is a kiss meant to end their lovemaking. She tries to push her tongue into his mouth, to taste deeper and to convince him to join her on their bed. Jon allows her a taste, but gently withdraws from her affections.

“You are a beauty like this,” he says.

She does not think so. Her efforts to appear put together have all but been crushed in their love-making. Her dress is pulled up to her waist, her hair no doubt mussed, her crown askew. She must be flushed pink, if not worse. Now, she must look more mistress than queen.

“Come, let’s get you cleaned.”

Arya takes his hand, and he lifts her up. As he does, he brings her into his arms again and pulls her close, his arm winding around to the small of her back.

“Do not forget what I said about your smallclothes,” he whispers. “I’ve not finished with you yet, little wolf.”

_No_ , she thinks. _No, you are not. Nor am I finished with you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, this series just keeps getting longer. I'm adhering to the same plot as I've planned from the start, but chopping up the chapters a little bit differently. 
> 
> There's no way in the seven hells that I could follow up this chapter's scene with anything remotely serious.


	4. The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the feast, Tyrion speaks with Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forever in debt to LadyBee and Pandachanda for helping me think through the politics in this chapter. And for everything else they do because they're amazing.

Where many a queen might find joy in feasting royalty and lords alike, Arya takes no pleasure from it. She prefers holding court, speaking with the smallfolk of Winter’s Town, carrying her husband’s children. Oh she has done her duty to be sure. She has mingled and said her courtesies. With the Free Folk and her Northern lords, she had even found amusement. Tormund Giantsbane—his arrival unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome—had taken one look at her swollen belly and laughed so loud it filled the Hall. That had made her smile. But the rest? She grows bored and tired with it.

From the dais, she watches Jon speak with Daenerys Targaryen and some Southron lordling. Her husband has skill in this in ways that she does not. The North is lucky to have him; _she_ is lucky to have him. Though he was an unlikely king, Jon is a good one. One only need look at the prosperity of the North since the War to understand that much. Though he has good councilors and her by his side to guide their joint rule, _Jon_ has shaped the North into a flourishing kingdom. Jon remembers their father and his lessons, though they were never quite meant for him. He rules as their father may have had the North placed a crown upon his head. Jon is just and well-loved and his people know him. When she sees him like this, Arya knows that she had been right to marry him and share her name and crown.

Every so often Jon will chance a look at her where she sits. Though he is often drawn to her when they are not side-by-side, Jon has taken a particular interest in her tonight. It is the gown, she thinks. The gown, and her growing teats, and his babe filling her belly. She blooms when she is with child. Jon is not the only man who she has caught looking at her, and she has no doubt Jon has caught them as well, leering at his queen. It will stir his blood; her husband has always taken quickly to jealousy, and it only grows worse when she carries his pups. The thought of him claiming her tonight after he must suffer men’s eyes all upon her has her pressing her thighs together, her center throbbing with what’s surely to come. When next he looks at her, she smiles at him, blinking slowly and stroking her swelling belly. If she continues this, surely he will beg their pardons and leave them for her bed.

“In the south, they compare you to my lady mother, Your Grace. Has anyone ever told you?”

So caught up in Jon, Arya hadn’t noticed Tyrion Lannister approaching. He takes the chair to her right where Sam had sat earlier, helping himself to a great cup of wine as he makes himself comfortable at her side.

“I would think they would compare me to your sister, taking a brother to husband.”

“Ah, but he is no true brother of yours. Your marriage pales in comparison to what Jaime and Cersei were.”

Arya must stop herself from grinning before he catches her. _You must tell that to Jon_ , Arya thinks. _Tell him as he mounts me like a wolf and calls me “little sister” as he spills his seed in me_. Though the truth of Jon’s parentage came out long ago, Arya—as disturbing as it is for some—thinks him no less a brother. He is still Ned Stark’s son, and she his daughter. The blood in his veins cannot change the life he has lived. Let the rest of the world think of them as cousins if that makes their marriage palatable. She and Jon know the truth of it—the only truth they have ever known.

“Then tell me—how am I like your mother?”

Tyrion finds Jon in the crowd and points, wine cup still in hand. “Jon rules the North, but you rule Jon.”

“If you say so, my lord.”

“I can see it with my own eyes—the way he looks at you. He would do anything you asked of him.”

“Is that what this is about then?” Arya asks, suddenly weary. “The game?”

“Can it be about anything else?”

“For men like you? No, and more’s the pity.”

Tyrion grins. “There are no men like me.”

“Ask me and be done with it then,” she says, sighing. “What would you have of Jon that I must put to him?”

“Alliance. If the stirrings in Essos are true, she will need the North.”

Arya’s mood darkens at that. Essos. War. Of course. It is rarely that high lords like Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Dragon Queen, die in war; that is why they have such a lust for it. Angered, she thinks to ask him if he strokes his famous cock to the thought of bloodshed. These men—their _games_ —never once do they think of the smallfolk who will die _en masse_ , if not on the battlefield then from starvation and ruin. Though it takes no small effort, Arya finds strength somewhere within her to harden herself.

“You would have Jon go to war?” 

“The war is coming for the Southron kingdoms, as certain as winter. It would only be a matter of time before Queen Daenerys’ enemies looked North should they gain ground. Now or then, it would be your war all the same. With Jon’s help, we could end it before it ever properly begins.”

_We_ , she thinks. _There it is again_. Tyrion Lannister would not be on the frontlines of this battle. But _Jon_ …Jon would not put his people in danger if he were not there next to them. She could lose him; it would only take an arrow to end his life. Their _children_ could lose him. And Edric, he would be crowned upon Jon’s death, her little boy only five years old. A crown is too heavy for such a little head.

“You ask much of me.”

“Only that you speak to your husband.”

Arya shakes her head. “We both know it’s much more than that, and yet you offer me nothing in return.”

“What do you want?”

She has spent most of her life _wanting_. Wanting for food, for shelter, for her mother’s arms, for her father’s kiss upon her brow. And the things she wants most now? Peace for her people, safety for her children, Jon to die an old, gray man. But those are things better to ask of the Old Gods, not Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion Lannister, she thinks, has so very little to offer her.

And yet.

“Pressure your Dragon Queen to marry,” she says.

“You think I have not tried?”

“Try harder.”

Tyrion opens his mouth, then shuts it quickly, his lips thinning in seeming frustration. His hand flexes, and he sighs heavily. It’s as if he’s mulling over his thoughts, of what he might say to her.

“She will not wed just any man, Arya. Be sensible.”

Arya hates the sound of her name on his lips like that, meant as a soft admonishment. Her own men may call her that, but not the Dragon Queen’s men. It makes her feel as if she is no queen at all, as if there is only one queen in all of Westeros. And though she does not _want_ to be a queen, too much of her life has been given up for the crown. Would that she could run off with Jon and the children to the Gift or beyond. Would that they could be smallfolk themselves. But they _can’t_ , and Arya refuses to suffer Tyrion treating her like this.

“ _He_ is wed,” she says icily. “He is no _Targaryen_. He will not take another wife.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Tyrion replies, careful and almost sympathetic. “But things _happen_. There are other ways to take a second wife.”

His eyes are full of pity as they fall to her middle. Her brow pulls in confusion before it occurs to her just what it is that he’s trying to say. Understanding, her hand spreads wide over her belly, shielding it from his eyes. Arya swallows hard, feels the anger lick her insides raw. But anger and sadness feel suddenly one in the same, and tears threaten to overcome her.

“Watch your tongue,” she hisses. “To even suggest that is treason.”

Tyrion raises a hand in defense. “I’ve been accused of my fair share of treason, Arya, but this is not that. _Valar morghulis_ —all men must die, yes? The Stranger must come for us all, though I hope it is a long time before he comes for either of us.” Tyrion pauses. “I’m simply trying to help you see all the possibilities and those that _others_ may consider viable.”

“Your queen?” she asks, and it is a curse on her lips.

His silence speaks volumes. Tyrion Lannister will not look her in the eye. Perhaps he doesn’t take pleasure from being the bearer of such news, perhaps he even sympathizes with her position. Arya is uncertain why he _would_ tell her such a thing, he the Dragon Queen’s Hand.

“Does she know you’re speaking to me about this?”

“No,” he admits.

“Then you are betraying her?”

“Truth, betrayal, good, bad, allegiance. What do these things even mean when war may very well be upon us again? The tides turn too quickly to ground them in anything,” Tyrion says. “I’m an honest man, and one who takes a measure of joy from living. That’s the truth that has kept me alive through the last war and that will keep me alive through the next if I’m lucky. It may not be very noble, but what good is nobility in a crypt?

“Jon is Daenerys’ heir, and you are his queen. You’ve given him children—three strong boys, and perhaps even a fourth. The North is secure in ways that can’t be said of the South, and I would be a poor player of this game if I did not see that. You may have enemies to the South, my queen, but I am not one of them. I called you ally once, and I would do it again.”

Arya thinks he means this information as a peace offering, as a gift of friendship in case the worst should befall the South. And perhaps it _is_ useful in its own way. But Arya cannot quite see beyond the words for what they are—not a token of friendship, but whispers of a wish to see her gone. And gone, it means her dying while trying to bring her daughter into the world. The thought makes her rub her belly, as if the life within her might need comforted from such an awful thing. Tears prick her eyes as she thinks what would become of her boys—so young—without her, what would become of _Jon_. Her _pack_. Oh it is one thing to think that death in the birthing bed is possible, but to know that it might bring someone joy is another thing entirely. She feels her lip tremble, and tries to steel herself against her emotions.

“Forgive me, my lord Hand,” she manages, using her courtesies to dampen her breaking heart. “I’m feeling unwell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to go with Ch3, but the two chapters weren't meshing for me at the time. I don't know how the politics sneaked in there, but more smut coming soon! 
> 
> Next Up: Godswood chats


	5. Myrish Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya fights and grieves. Jon's mood blackens.

_Swift as a deer_.

She crosses her feet, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and lifting herself onto her tip-toes. Spinning and then grounding herself, Arya brings Needle before her, slowly slashing across her body, right to left and over her head. She steps back and back again, Needle flowing smoothly from one hand to the other. 

 _Quick as a snake_. 

Stepping forward, she pierces the air with Needle’s sharp point. Again and again. Her grip is light as she turns Needle in her palm. She swings it gracefully over her head before tossing it just so to her other hand. In her mind, the fluidity of her dance has caught her invisible enemy by surprise.

 _Calm as still water_.

Arya takes a step back and pivots, back and pivots, back and pivots. Her one arm tucked behind her back, and her sword arm steady. With the next move, she easily kneels, one knee up and the other upon the ground. When she rises again, it is with some struggle, but that is only to be expected. 

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords_.

Her hand turns, turns, turns Needle. Determined, Arya lifts her leg, lunges forward, and strikes out. When next she spins around, she discovers she is no longer alone.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

“You disappeared,” Jon says, matter-of-factly. 

She had, almost an hour ago. After politely excusing herself from Tyrion’s company, she had fled from the Great Hall to her rooms. Yet the walls had seemed to smother her, and Arya had ached for the cool dampness of the Godswood. She had longed for the feel of a sword in her hand. She had longed to _dance_.

It had taken her by surprise that Jon had not immediately followed her. His absence was Myrish fire to her fresh wounds, and she would be a liar if she said that, in her wroth, she had not pretended to stick her husband with her sword. Jon _knows_ her, and he should have felt her pain. What was it that the wildlings said of them— _prick her and he bleeds_. That’s the way of it, and yet he seemed worlds apart from her in her moment of need.

A small, rationale part of her—and it _is_ small in her fury—knows that they have guests, that Jon cannot just _leave_ because she ran off. It had been so when they were young children, but they are children no longer. Winter has come and gone and burdened them both with duty. Still, her sense of reason is barely a whisper in her mind, and she dismisses it with a nod in his direction.

“Pick it up,” she commands.

 _Dark Sister_. They call it her wedding gift, though Jon had given it to her before they were truly wed. He had taken her to bed, the words left unuttered between them. They—who could finish one another’s sentences—had not needed spoken promises; the act itself was enough. _Wedded and bedded_. The sword had been to please her and arm her for what lay beyond their chambers. And it was only fitting as a bridal gift, he had argued, given the sword’s name. She was _his_ after all, his sweet, dark sister with the wild look of the North. 

Jon’s eyes travel to the sword, and he lifts it, though Arya can see the hesitation in his movements. He must know she is in a rage then because he is usually happy to please her with swordplay. Long ago he had learned that he could not unarm her when she was with child and had decided better he spar with her than anyone who might accidentally bring her harm. It is usually happy, playful; it usually makes their blood sing and sex stir. 

Tonight, Arya is unsure she can feel anything like that. 

“It’s late,” he says, trying feebly to sway her. 

“Come at me.” 

He doesn’t, so she does. 

Jon raises Dark Sister to block her first strike, but she easily turns Needle at the last moment and catches him off guard. She might have pierced his doublet, but Jon does not give her a second to relish her victory before coming at her. Though his swing is forceful, it is wide, and Arya maneuvers out of its way with relative ease. With a quick movement, she _thwaps_ him hard on the forearm with Needle. Her strike darkens his eyes in a way that she has come to long for, but not tonight. She smacks him again to tell him she is in little mood for this.

Charging her, suddenly Jon _tries_. The arcs of his swings are tight and skillful, much harder for her to elude. He moves this way and that, high and low. She is on the defensive, and Needle is only so useful. At first she manages to meet his steel with her own, but their steps are too quick. Jon pushes her back, further and further. She must evade him with both sword and body. Except, her body is not just her own anymore, and her sense of balance has become cumbersome. He uses it to his advantage, trying to make her slip up. Fire licks her insides; he is not playing _fair_. _No one_ is playing _fair_ tonight.

Finally, he succeeds in tangling her feet up. When she loses her balance, Jon tosses Dark Sister aside and easily catches her before she falls. _Curse you, Jon_ , she thinks. Arya needed this, needed an outlet for her anger. But, he uses her belly against her and denies her this like so many would deny her _him_ and her _children_ and _life_ if they might have it their way. 

Her fists meet his chest and she pounds on him, first hard but growing weaker. When she shoves at him to get him away from her, he only holds her tighter. Before she knows it, he shushes her and tells her that, whatever it is, it will be all right. It’s not until he says it to calm her that she realizes she’s about to cry.

“What’s happened?” he asks. 

“I want _her_ gone.” 

“Daenerys? Did she say something? You hardly spoke a dozen words to each other tonight.” 

“You’re blind to it, you know? You can’t _see_ it because she’s _family_.”

She strikes out at him again, but he holds her wrist firmly. To his credit, Jon does not grow impatient with her or her attempts to make him feel physically what is tearing her insides apart. She _hates_ him for that too, for loving her so well that he can let her anger run its course. He is too good a man; it’s little wonder why he’s wanted so.

“Do you know why your aunt won’t marry?” she asks, and her vision is blurred with tears. “Because she would have _you_.”

Jon’s expression softens, his lips turning upwards into a smirk. He brings a hand to her hair, her hair that she earlier tried so painstakingly hard to coif so that she might look regal, and runs his fingers through her loosening locks.

“She can’t have me,” he says, kissing her brow, which only serves to make her cry harder. “Don’t be stupid, Arya. I would never leave you.”

Her strength leaves her as Jon tends to her gently. He draws her closer, wraps his arms around her. His one hand finds the small of her back, the other the back of her head. His kisses are easy, as if his lips alone might dry her eyes. Though she suspects he intended it to have the opposite effect, Arya finds his tenderness unbearable. She swallows a cry that threatens to escape her throat at the thought of Jon still thinking that this is something that can be fixed.

“She would have me die in the birthing bed to have you.”

 It’s a bare whisper against his collarbone, but Jon must hear it because his body goes rigid against her. Shutting her eyes tightly, Arya waits. She tucks her head under his chin, nuzzles his neck, presses herself against him. Her own tears are salty on her lips, from both her cheeks and the mess she’s left on Jon’s skin. Yet Jon does not respond to her touch, and _that_ might make her weep too. 

For a moment, Arya thinks perhaps she should have kept this to herself. Jon has feared losing her to this ever since they learned of Edric. Sometimes she’s afraid too, but Arya tries to be brave for him, to pretend that their child won’t mean the end of her. Instead, she speaks to him of good hips, of swaddled babes with grey eyes, of fat little feet for him to kiss. Never of blood-soaked linen, of fevers, of ashen things covered discreetly and taken away. She knows his terror, and perhaps this thing she should have carried with her just like the babe in her belly now.

“Did she see it in a dream?” Jon asks, though the voice hardly sounds like her husband’s.

Arya shakes her head. “I don’t think so. It was only…if the opportunity arose, I’m told.” 

Lifting her head to look at him, Arya watches his jaw tense and set. He will not meet her eyes, but Arya does not think that he’s angry with her. Jon’s form of anger with her has always been avoidance, and though Jon seems almost frozen, he keeps her close still. 

“Jon?” she tries.

It seems enough to spark something within him. Taking her face into his hands, Jon brings their lips together. And it is hard and fierce and crushing. His teeth find her lips, and he drags them across the plump flesh there. She nips back at him, returning his intensity as best she can. But when Jon is like this, he is a force, and even she is little match for him.

Her lips are swollen when he finds a moment of contentment. Pulling back, he stares down at her. She searches his grey eyes, desperate to know what is happening behind them. For as long as she can remember, Arya has been able to read Jon’s thoughts as well as she understood her own. Their closeness allowed them to finish one another’s sentences. But as she looks at him now, Arya faces something that she cannot quite place, a certain darkness, maybe, that she has so rarely seen in Jon. It is not one that he ever had as a boy, and Arya briefly wonders if he found this part of himself after the Red Woman brought him back. Whatever it is, she does not know what to do or say to make it better. The only thing she can think to do is stroke his handsome face.

“Kin or not,” he begins, and his voice is dangerously low. “No one will speak of you like that while I draw breath. On my honor as a Stark, this will be settled once and for all.”

His seriousness, his promise—it soothes her anger and sadness like a balm. For years this has haunted her, and she has quietly tolerated it for the sake of peace and alliance. While the Dragon Queen might not _wish_ her dead, that she would see opportunity in Arya’s death is still too much. Maybe if she were not married, not a queen responsible for the lives of the smallfolk, not a _mother_ , not _pregnant_ —maybe then Arya would dismiss Daenerys Targaryen like she deserves to be dismissed. But she cannot abide this, not now. 

For as fearful and angry as she is, Jon is worse. He will read into this; he will think it some prophetic dream rather than the observations of the Queen’s Hand. Arya almost hates herself for raising the issue when she sees the tension in Jon’s expression—not anger over the repercussions this might have politically, but anger on Arya’s behalf—and would well and truly be disgusted with herself if it were not for the fact that it had gone on long enough. Sometimes Jon is so sweet that she forgets how dangerous he can become.

“I’m here,” she says, “I’m not going anywhere. Not if I have a say.”

“The Old Gods care little for our wishes.”

Oh she _knows_ that for truth. How many wishes had she offered up in prayer only for them to go unanswered? She had been no more than a girl when she’d begun. And though she grows older, Arya’s prayers have not stopped. Her list has grown shorter, those on it finding justice, and the nature of her requests have changed. _Make my boys humble_. _Bring them wisdom. Let me live so that I might see my child’s face. Bring Jon home safely_. Yet she knows that her time will come eventually; her fate will not be so different from those whose lives she’s ended. Kinder, perhaps, but all darkness in the end.

“ _Valar morghulis_.”

“Not you,” Jon says, leaning his forehead against hers, his tone possessive and furious. “Never you.”

“Someday—when you are an old and graying man—but _not today_.”

Arya says it with force, with _conviction_ so that Jon might know and be put at ease. The God of Death has chased her across seven kingdoms and beyond, but she had been cleverer, swifter. And this, too, cannot be her time.

But ease has not found Jon, not when he buries his fingers into her hips like this, bruising her pale flesh. His mouth covers hers, and it is not quite kind. Not _unkind_ , but sweet like poison, rough like rocks to the knees. She never thought _her_ Jon, her green, summer boy from Winterfell, capable of this. As a girl, he had been so delicate with her. As a woman, he worships her more often than not, but sometimes a little darkness creeps in—a little heaviness, weariness, a little fear—and Jon takes her like they are no better than wolves in the Wolfswood, as if she is some wolf-bitch from the seventh hell needing to be put in her place.

She sees it in his eyes, the hardness there. Gray, and cold as stone. Quickly, he pulls at the fastens of his cloak, discarding it to the forest floor in a puddle of wool and fur. Where normally he might kiss her, trail his fingers across the exposed skin at neck and chest, here Jon only tugs at the skirts of her gown so that they do not tangle and brings both he and Arya to his cloak.

Though he is mindful of her condition, Jon pulls and pushes her into position for him with some degree of carelessness. The cloak on the ground offers little cushion as she can only find it with one knee. She opens her mouth to ask him to allow her a moment to get comfortable, but the slap of cold air against her bare bottom makes her gasp instead.

There is a pause where Arya sees Jon discard his gloves in a fury only to wind one hand through her hair. The other, unsteady and unpracticed, finds her sex, exposing her to him. Though she is hardly in a state of mind to have sought out his body on her own, she comes alive at the feel of his fingers against her cleft, finding her and teasing her to warmth.

Oh if she could, she might stop him. She might reach back and squeeze his hand, might explain to him that this is not the way to handle his hurt, his fear. She might tell him that they will go to bed and hold each other and that he might tell her all his worries. That they might be _adults_ , not _this._ Not greedy, wanting beasts, hardly better than the summer children they were so long ago, hardly more human than their wolves.

But the words escape her as Jon slaps her thighs apart, as he makes quick work of the lacings of his breeches. He’s pushing into her with little mind as to whether _she’s_ ready for him. The slow, not-quite-yielding stretch of her has her grunting. She drops her head to her hands and tries to adjust to the feel of him thick within her. He allows it for the briefest moment before he withdraws and then sheathes himself in her with a quick tug of her hips.

The pace of him is hard and frantic. Uncomfortable. She will ache tomorrow from this one. _He_ will _hurt_ from the small bruises blooming on her hips from his grip. He will say he was too rough with her, that there is a _child_ , and he misused her no better than a whore.

All of that might be true, if this were not Jon. He would not harm her. He would not threaten a hair on her head, would never risk their children. The pull on her hips comes not from a place of anger, but despair. Despair that he might lose her like he has feared all along. She will say she forgives him, though there is truly nothing to forgive.

His thrusts—never purposeful, never certain, not this time—become erratic. His hands shake, slip on her skin. He _pounds_ , _pounds_ , _pounds_ until he gasps into the cold, night air, his seed spilling.

For a moment, she worries. For a moment, Arya thinks it’s not quite right. But then Jon’s mouth his hot on her spine, pressing kisses into her flesh and resting his cheek there for a moment. Her knees ache. Her skin is too hot and sticky, her gown stifling. She moves back just so, testing to see if he will let her up. When he shifts, Arya rises to her knees, her dark hair falling in her face—a mess from Jon’s hand.

“I won’t leave you, Jon,” she whispers, her voice more fragile than she realizes.

Arya does not speak about the others, does not add that she is not his mother, not the wildling girl. It would be to cruel a thing to say to him. But she does manage _that_ , hoping that Jon will say something kind to her in return. About how he feels better. About how he trusts that she would never. That her word was good and true.

He does not. Though the darkness has yielded some ground to something tender, Jon remains silent. Instead of reassuring her that she had reached him, he rises to his feet and extends a hand. She takes it, and he lifts her. Jon gathers their things—his cloak, her swords—and joins their hands together. Wordless, he guides her back to the castle, his seed slowly slipping from her body.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally chapter 5 was meant to have two sex scenes before the epilogue. However, I false started on scene 2 a couple of times, so I'm posting this separately while I work through the second scene.


	6. Little Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya resolve their problems.

Arya returns to her rooms without Jon, her handmaids following behind her to help her dress for bed. His absence has her uneasy, but she could not very well ask Tormund to leave his business until the morrow, not when he made it clear that it was of some pressing importance. She thought to ask Sam to join them on her way to her chambers to ensure than Jon thinks clearly on the matter, but Arya had no desire to risk Jon taking it as insult, as if he could not handle the North on his own.

In truth, she knows him more than capable. Yet, when these dark moods come upon him, he sometimes has a blindness to things, to _reason_. The only thing that keeps her from changing her mind and calling for Sam is that he is with Tormund. Though the wildlings have lived among the Northerners for some time now, they have not learned the intricacy of Northern courtesies. That Jon is technically their king means no more to them than if he were some hardened warrior among them, a peer among thousands. Tormund would tell Jon if he were not thinking properly. Arya trusts her husband to his company. 

After asking her handmaids to prepare her bath, Arya sets to pulling the pins from her loosened hairstyle. It is not even a pretty mess, not like Sansa’s on those limited occasions when her sister is in disarray, like when she wakes. Sansa’s hair is aflame in the morning sun, hanging haphazardly and looking beautifully sleep-mussed. And Daenerys Targaryen—the sun must bring her hair alight like moonglow. Sometimes—especially now, as Arya glances at her own reflection, at her own tangled, brown mess—Sansa and Daenerys make her heart hurt in a similar way. It is a challenge to hold a candle to such surpassing loveliness. Long ago Arya had tried to stop comparing herself to true beauties like Sansa and the Dragon Queen, but in her vulnerable moments, she fails herself. 

The pins are a tangle in her not-quite-curls. In her frustration, in her _sadness_ , Arya tugs at the pins violently, plucking them from her hair with strands still wrapped around them. As she drops them to a dish on a wooden stand to the right of the tall looking glass, Arya must sniff back her tears again. Only a few years ago, she might have blamed her belly, but Arya is not so naïve now as to think that the case. Tears wet her eyes because she cannot quite strip herself of the feeling of inferiority that she has known for as long as she can remember.

“Your Grace?” one of her maids, Ynys, says with concern. “Are you unwell? Should I call for the King?” 

“No, I’m fine,” she tries, though her voice betrays her. “I just need a bath. The warmth will ease my soreness.” 

Arya touches her middle lightly by way of explanation, and her little maid smiles softly, content that her problems rest solely in her pregnancy. It is a lie, of course. Anyone who bothered to see with their eyes would know as much. Yet, people expect her behavior to change significantly with every pregnancy—more so than she’s ever properly felt—and so it becomes an easy excuse to use when she does not wish to burden others with her heaviness. 

As the rest of her maids finish filling the tub, she has Ynys help her out of her gown. Her maid’s hands are careful with her lacings, her fingers nimble at her back. Arya closes her eyes and wishes that Jon were with her now, that the Dragon Queen had not come to visit, that she and her husband had spent all day with their children and had only just tucked them into bed. She wishes that it was Jon unlacing her gown, his hands clumsy with joy at their reunion. She wishes they might finish what they started this afternoon, with his sweet mouth between her legs. Instead, she is left to herself, with unwelcome aches from his touch and dirt on her knees. 

When her gown slides from her shoulders, the cool air against her hot, sticky flesh is as delightful as a lover’s kiss. If Ynys notices her knees or lack of small clothes, she has the sense not to ask about it. The young woman has not been long in her service, and Arya knows the castle talks. All of the North knows that she and Jon are a love match and that time has not dampened their lust. She is certain that her other maids must have told Ynys of the things they have seen since she and Jon took residence in Winterfell as king and queen. 

Naked as her name day, she steps into the copper tub filled with hot water. Arya eases herself into the heat of it, the water lapping at her weary legs. A contented sigh escapes her lips. When she sits, her eyes flutter shut in happiness as she moves to lie back. 

“Please leave me,” she says. 

“Your Grace,” her handmaids answer, curtsying before seeing themselves out of her room. 

Arya is uncertain how long she lounges as the warmth works away at her tense muscles. Winterfell is quiet around her, and her chambers are now a welcome protection against everything beyond her door. No longer does she feel suffocated. Would that she could, she might stay here for the next week or more until she was rid of the Southroners and had her home back. Her home _and_ her _husband_. 

At the thought of Jon, Arya opens her eyes to look upon her thighs. She stretches an arm out, rubbing the flesh where Jon’s seed had dried on their walk back. Though it had likely long since dissipated into the water, Arya wants to be sure that she is clean, as if scrubbing it from her flesh might make everything that led up to their coupling in the Godswood disappear too. When she is satisfied, Arya brings her hands to her belly, cradling her curving stomach. She smooths her palm over her stretching skin and exhales. 

“I will protect you,” Arya says to the babe within her. “No matter the cost. You are worth the price and more, my little she-pup. My Lyra.” 

Before her children, Arya can’t recall if she ever felt love. Not properly. Not like this. Her love for her children runs dangerously, deadly deep. Before, she had only ever felt such instinct when in Nymeria’s skin. And when she had first set eyes on her screaming baby Edric, she had thought perhaps she had slipped skin, so great were her urges to protect, to nourish, to love. She had not warged though; it was only motherhood.

_Only_. 

Men spoke of a mother’s madness, had spoken of her _own_ mother’s, in fact. At the time, she could not understand, but now she does. Painfully, settling deep within her bones. What is the bite of Valyrian steel compared to the sight of a child’s chest rising and falling sweetly in slumber? What is one man’s life compared to a child’s safety? For her sons, she would take a blade to the heart happily, would drink any poison, would willingly walk into dragon fire. And though it would be months before she saw her face, Arya knows she would do no less for her daughter. 

“Important men may value you less because you are a girl, but they will never do so in my presence. Nor your father’s.” 

The thought of Jon makes her heart ache, makes the warm water around her seem a little colder. After receiving Bran’s raven with the news, Arya had imagined telling Jon before they went to bed so that he might lie with her all night, touching her happily and smiling. Considering everything that had happened today, she wishes she would have waited until Winterfell was theirs once again. Too much is happening for them to take a moment to delight in the _daughter_ growing within her. 

“Your father adores you already,” she promises. “He is a good man. He will be kind to you and playful and put a sword in your hand when the time comes. He has been waiting for you for years.” 

She has seen it in Jon’s eyes every time she has told him of her pregnancies. Jon has no love for kingship, nor does he particularly care for the expectations that come with it, one of which, of course, is a male heir. When Gilly had told her years ago that she carried their first child like a girl according to wildling lore, Jon had been delighted. And before that, back in the Winterfell of their childhood, Jon had once said if he had ever had a child, he hoped it would be a girl just like her. Now, he is finally getting that wish. 

Arya hopes that they will have the time and the peace to allow them to enjoy their new babe now that they finally have her. The thought of what this visit might mean for her family’s future, the North’s future, troubles her, making her blood run cold at the thought of another war on Westerosi soil. Like it or not, it would seem the Essoi are coming for the Dragon Queen, and the Northerners may be at risk regardless of whether they ally themselves with her. 

Feeling suddenly restless, Arya lifts herself from her bath. She reaches for something to dry off with, but her racing thoughts keep her from seeing to the task to any great effect. When she slips her nightgown on over her head, she’s still half damp, the fabric clinging to parts of her skin. Arya does not pause to remedy the situation, nor does she tie the strings at her chest with any care. Her grip is tight on her comb as she raises it to her hair, as tight as she would hold Needle or Dark Sister, and she rakes it through her dark locks carelessly. 

When the door opens, she hardly registers it. At first she thinks it’s one of her maids come to deliver a message or tend to one final thing in the room before she sleeps. It’s only when she sees another reflection in her looking glass, dark and handsome, does she realize that it’s Jon. 

He says nothing as he wraps himself around her from behind. His expression is blank, though Arya knows she could read it if she took the spare moments to do so. But she does not need to. She knows everything she needs to know from how his body fits against hers. He is no longer rigid from anger, from stress, from fear. Instead, he presses more easily against her back, his touch light on her hip. Arya closes her eyes and sighs, allowing herself to rest her weight against him. 

“What did Tormund need to speak of?” she asks, only half-curious.

“Nothing you should concern yourself with,” he answers, his mouth warm against her temple. “I’ve taken care of it. And I’ll take care of the rest too. You have my word.”

He seals his promise with a kiss to her cheek and says nothing more on the matter. Arya nearly asks him what he means, what the _rest of it_ involves. Since they reunited years ago, Jon has come to her to discuss all manner of things. That he does not offer her more—does not explain what he intends to do—makes her uneasy. 

“Jon, what—” 

“No,” he interrupts, though his tone is kind. “You’ve worried over this for far too long. Let me bear the burden now.” 

“But…it will end?” Arya asks, hating herself for the weakness in her voice. 

“It will.” 

Arya wills herself to believe him. Oh, she does not doubt that he will do as he promises, but she fears how he might approach this conversation with the Dragon Queen. Jon is skilled in diplomacy, but _she_ has always added insight to strengthen his position. She does not want him to think that they cannot speak of this because it wounds her so, especially now when he might need her most, when so much might be determined by this exchange. It would be a lie to deny that she does not feel guilt over Jon’s insistence that he do this alone.

He must sense that something troubles her because his slides one arm across her shoulders and another beneath her breasts, strengthening his hold on her. Jon presses kisses into her hair and nuzzles her just so. Arya tries to find comfort in it, but it is only a restless comfort. Jon will know his touch does nothing to ease her mind. 

“I’m worried I’m going to lose you this time.”

Arya seeks out his eyes in the looking glass, but he does not meet her gaze. Jon presses his forehead against her hair, breathing deeply. Unsteady. That he fears she will die is no great surprise to her; that he _speaks_ of it does. Briefly, Arya wonders if he has found courage to talk about this thing that haunts him most since she has finally spoken of her own ghosts. It would not be the first time they had both broken down together. Yet Arya does not linger over the thought long; she does not know how to respond to her husband’s fear when her only answer is mutual fear and uncertainty.

“If something should happen, I don’t want to have spent our time like this,” Jon says, though it is a struggle for him to say the words. “Enough of Daenerys. The only woman who has ever meant anything to me is you. From the moment you were born until the moment I die, Arya. I swear it, and this is not an oath I will break.” 

Arya wants to protest, wants to tell him that it’s not so, to remind him of the women he’s lost already and has grieved for. But she can’t, not when he pulls back and looks at her like that, like she’s hung every star in the sky. In all her years she has doubted so many, but never Jon, and this is why: this look. Reverence, awe. Adoration, want. And maybe even more: possession, belonging. It’s why she suffers the crown she wears; there’s nowhere else she belongs but with Jon. Her eyes are thick with tears, but she finds Jon’s are as well. The two of them—they’d been quick to cry as children, and it’s not something they’ve outgrown altogether. At least, not with each other. 

“I wish I knew how to tell you no,” he says, inhaling to clear his nose and smiling just so. 

At first Arya has no idea what he’s referring to, but then she feels his hand slip lower over the curve of her belly. His touch makes her warm. At first it’s pleasant, like a pile of furs after a walk in the cold, before it’s something a little more.

“You find me too comely when I’m in the yard with Needle. That’s why we’re here.” 

Jon shakes his head, staring at her as if she’s the stupidest woman in all of Westeros. And she feels like she is for a moment until Jon surprises her by tugging at the poorly-bowed ties as her nightgown. He pushes it off her shoulders and helps it over the curves of her body until it’s all but forgotten in a pool at her feet. When he returns his hands to her, they slide over her stretching skin. After three children, she should not feel so self-conscious being bare before him like this. And perhaps it’s only because they stand before her looking glass, back to front, his eyes locked on hers in their reflection that the heat rises to her cheeks. 

“ _This_ ,” he says, his hands moving along her protruding belly, “is why we’re here. I think of having you like this again, and it wears down my resolve. You’re always beautiful, but it’s not the same. It’s not _this_.” 

She knows. It had taken her awhile, yes, but eventually she discovered that Jon loved having her thick with his babes. With the war and Jon afield so frequently, Arya hadn’t figured it out when she carried Edric. All she knew was that Jon would come to her bed hungry and wanting upon his arrival home and visit her regularly until he left again. Rarely had they discussed their child for fear of the birthing bed. But that had all changed with peace and Howland. 

Jon hums, his palms flat against her skin. “I think you’ve grown since I left.” 

“Have I?”

Arya is not so swollen that she feels ungainly yet, her belly only a gentle slope on her petite frame. Soon though, she thinks. Maybe a moon or two before the dull throbbing in her back and feet sets in and Jon spends the late hours of the evening rubbing her tired, straining muscles.

“Here,” he says, before sliding his hands to her breasts. “And here.” 

His rough hands against her soft, tender flesh makes her sigh. “Jon.” 

“I wasn’t good to you earlier. If you’re not too tired, let me make it up to you.” 

Oh, she is exhausted, her body feeling the weight of it. But Jon’s hands are at her breasts, slowly massaging them, bring parts of her body alive, and Arya doesn’t have it in her to tell him no, that they will have each other in the morning. 

Jon kisses her jaw, his hands moving to play with her nipples and cup her breasts in turn. “Relax, just let me take care of you.” 

“Alright,” she whispers, resting against him and allowing him to take some of her weight.

“Watch. In the looking glass.” 

A shiver races down her spine. It had been ages since they’ve done this, since before the war ended. Back when the world was much darker, when they thought for certain they would die and there was little sense in oaths and propriety. Jon had had her a thousand ways back then, but the memory of their last time like this is clear to her among them. 

His fingers leave a trail of heat down her side and across her hip, dipping below her belly and finding the thatch of curls between her thighs. Arya does as he asks, watching and feeling her sex throb and bloom with a wet warmth. He slips inside her cleft, stroking her as he presses his lips against her neck. And she relishes the feel of it, his deft fingers slipping up to the apex of her thighs and finding the place that makes her knees weak—simultaneously too much and not at all enough. Her eyes flutter shut at his touch, her focus solely on her growing need. 

“You’re not looking, Arya.” 

Arya forces her eyes open, though it is a struggle. The sight of Jon behind her, kissing her bare skin with his hand between her thighs, is a truly beautiful one. It’s a testament to his skilled fingers that she can focus on herself when he looks like this—dark and dream-like with want. 

“There’s my girl,” he says, rewarding her with a long, slow stroke that makes her gasp.

“Jon.” 

“I’m a selfish man,” Jon admits, his voice low. “When you’re with child, all the world knows you’re mine. Four babes now. And they know you’re not the type of woman to suffer a fool of a husband more than your duty demands.”

“Proof that you’re loved and belong.”

She lifts her hand to cup his cheek, her body stretching long along his front. Arya watches him now, how he curls around her. His other hand finds her nipple, pinching her hard enough that the pleasure she feels makes her bite her lip for fear of crying out.

“What of me though?” And it comes out as a whine, soft and lusty. “How do they know that you’re not just visiting my bed out of duty?”

Jon grins against her cheek, his beard scratching her soft skin. “They have eyes, little sister. Ears, as well.” 

_Little sister_. She melts with the wickedness of it, the promise of her orgasm growing bolder. Jon has the truth of it; he does not take her to bed quietly. Her name is on his lips like a prayer when she rides him, loud enough that her maids cannot look at her the rest of the day without blushing red.

“Say it again.”

“Which part?”

“ _It_.”

“ _Little sister_.”

As he whispers the words to her, his fingers change pace, alternating between long strokes that have her rising on her toes to keep contact and slow circles against the spot that makes her limbs feel not quite her own. Arya trembles on his hand, growing closer and closer to completion.

“Again.”

“I’m yours, little sister. No one else’s. Only yours.”

“Mine.”

“Yours.”

She opens her mouth to claim him as her own once again, but instead Arya cries out, her pleasure seizing her. She watches herself in the looking glass as Jon had asked of her, watches her legs clench on his hand and back arch slightly. He kisses her tenderly through the waves that wrack her body, steadying her as her knees buckle.

As she slowly comes down from her orgasm, Jon lifts her, carrying her in his arms to the bed. And Arya is grateful; she does not think she could make it that far on her own just yet. After laying her down, Jon is quick to remove his clothing before joining her. He sits between her legs on his knees, looking down at her. 

And he is half a god like this, her husband. In her pleasure-induced haziness, she might be convinced that it’s true, what they say of him—that he is a promised hero, a deity reborn. To her, he’s always been her older brother, just _Jon_ and no one more. But right now, and later, when he is sheathed around her, she might just believe it.

“Don’t stop touching me,” she says, reaching between her knees for him to take her hand.

Jon does, twinning their fingers together as he moves above her and seeking out her mouth with his own. His lips are chapped from his ride back to Winterfell, the winds cruel when exposed to them for too long. But Arya relishes their roughness because it reminds her of long ago, before they were overburdened with duty, when they were fumbling secretly in the dark to remind themselves that, though the enemy was approaching, they were not dead yet. 

When they part, Arya nearly whines from the absence of his touch. And she almost objects aloud, but Jon nudges her cheek with his nose, exposing her neck to his lips where he then presses a trail into delicate skin. Down he goes, between her collarbone and lower still. The tip of his nose ghosts along her warm, heavy breast, and Jon breathes in deeply the smell of her. He blows lightly on her nipple, Arya arching her back in response, and suddenly Jon is much too far away.

He takes her into his mouth, his teeth just barely touching her before he sucks on her hard. Her hips lift, her hand finding its way into his dark hair and fisting it tight. Arya will never tire of having Jon like this; if it were up to her, she would have him at her breast until she came from the sensation alone. And it wouldn’t be difficult, not with how tender and swollen they are from the babe. She knows it; _Jon_ knows it. Arya is certain he does because there is no way he _couldn’t_ , which is why she protests when he lets her nipple go and begins kissing the underside of her breast over to her breastbone.

“I want you,” he whispers against her flesh. 

His mouth travels downward, lingering over belly. And it’s as if he’s everywhere, pressing chapped skin and his rough beard into her flesh. It’s like a dream when Jon does this, acknowledges and worships her swollen stomach, his hand sliding over her and his thumb stroking her belly as he kisses it with a tenderness he so rarely reserves for any other place on her body.

“How could anyone doubt that I belong to you? How—when you look like this, little sister?”

“They’re fools, all of them,” she manages, and it surprises her how much she needed to hear herself say that.

He hums his agreement against her. “All of them.”

“Jon,” she begs.

He ignores her in favor of kissing a path from her navel to the underside of her belly. Jon takes his time there with her too, exploring her like some unconquered land when Gods Old and New both know he’s conquered her a thousand times and more. She feels his fingers explore her carelessly, and then with some intention.

“The boys have left their marks on you.”

“Not the boys. Their father,” she says softly, relishing his touch. “He’s to blame.”

Arya can feel his smile against her belly.

“I’ll have to take the blame for her as well then. And the ones that come after.”

“After?”

“Definitely.”

She no sooner thinks to tell him that he should be happy with four than Jon—to her surprise—dips his head between her legs, his mouth on her hot and fast. Arya groans, pressing her hips against him to deepen the contact. _And the ones that come after_ , she thinks, knowing it to be true. 

Jon is skilled with his tongue, stroking her wide until she cannot think properly. And then he finds her center, his pressure strong and sweet, causing her to tighten her thighs against his head involuntarily. If she had the mind, she might apologize, but Jon would not want her to. Jon would only want her to think of her pleasure.

And Arya does, focusing on his touch and bringing her hands to her breasts. She touches them as he tastes her, pinching herself so that together they build her up and up and up. And it is a beautiful duet, one that has her awash pleasure, basking in the melody of her quiet gasps and Jon’s hums and groans against her sex. Her pleasure overwhelms, teetering on a line of too much, too much. But Jon persists with his mouth even when her own hands falter, and soon her toes curl as her body spasms suddenly, her hand flying to Jon’s dark hair to hold him tightly against her as she rides out the waves.

At some point, she releases him from her grip, though she hardly has the mind to remember when. Arya is _wrecked_ , worn down as if she’d spent hours in the yard. She relaxes into the bed, her limbs going limp, and focuses on the way her body still sweetly spasms as she comes down.

Jon shifts, crawling over her and settling his hips between her legs. She feels his lips on her temple, his cock brush against her too-sensitive sex. When she whines, Jon shushes her sweetly, pushing her hair behind her ear.

“I’ve been mad for you since you entered this world,” he says softly. “Daenerys will have the truth of it soon.”

Arya nearly protests at the sound of her name on his lips in their bed, but Jon pushes inside of her, painstakingly slow, and all seems forgotten, even Dragon Queens. He meets no resistance; she is far too wet for him. And he is thick within her, hot and stretching her. Arya tries to find his eyes, but he moves, and the sensation makes her close her own to savor it.

“Tonight. After I’ve seen you to sleep,” Jon continues, his fingers parting her cleft to find her once again. “I’ll go to her, stinking of sex and the smell of my sweet sister.”

“Oh gods, Jon,” she cries, shutting her eyes tightly. 

As she trembles and clenches hard around him, Jon falters, his rhythm suddenly off in a way that she knows to mean he’s close. He finds her lips, pressing hard against her mouth, his hips thrusting into her hard and with little skill. But it does not matter, not to her, not when she has him like this. She is overwhelmed by him, consumed and heavy with him in every way possible. Arya bites into his lower lip, brutal enough to draw blood. _Good_ , she thinks, _let her see that too_.

Her hands grasp at him for purchase—his shoulders, his arms, his neck, his hair. She grunts and gasps and makes a million other little sounds that drive Jon closer, closer.  He parts their lips, eyes closed and panting.

“I want you,” he says, his voice hoarse and strangled. “As my sister, my wife. Thick with our babes and my cock inside you.”

“Tell _her_.”

“Yes,” he moans. 

Whether he says it in truth or only for her to hear, Arya cannot say. Jon tenses, his mouth open, and spills himself within her already full womb. And his face is a thing of beauty, sticky with sweat and eyes scrunched in bliss. She might look upon it forever if she could. Arya reaches out to hold his face in her hands, kissing him hard on the jaw and cheek, lightly on the nose and lips. He hovers over her, exhausted, and when he finally finds himself enough to move, Jon eases himself against her side. His head rests against her breast, her fingers toying with his hair.

“I meant it. Every word of it,” he says sleepily, lifting his head to meet her eyes. “Until the end of my days— _yours_.”

_Yes_ , she thinks, her eyes heavy. _Mine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a lot with the beginning of this chapter, which is why it took me ages to update. Many thanks to P for the help and suggestions, always. One chapter left to go, which is brief epilogue of sorts. Thanks all! I would love to hear what you think!


	7. Winter's Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya wakes.

Her body is warm and heavy, her mind flittering on the edge of wakefulness. It feels like it’s been a thousand years since she slept so well, and Arya is content to let herself enjoy it further, burrowing deeper into linens and pillows, relishing her body heat. But as she shifts, the babe in her wakes, likely ending the possibility of falling asleep again. 

Arya groans, pressing her hand to her belly. “Your father let me sleep. It shouldn’t be so much to ask the same of you, little wolf.” 

Rolling to her back, Arya looks over at Jon’s abandoned side of the bed and sighs. If she can judge anything by the light, Jon will have been up for awhile now. Arya reaches out to his pillow to find it cold, confirming her suspicions. But from the other room she hears whispers, then what can hardly pass as whispers coming from much small voices. She smiles to herself.

“Jon,” she calls, careful to keep her voice light so that he does not think something has happened. 

It only takes a moment for the doors to their bedchamber to open, but when they do, it is not Jon who enters. Instead, she sees two mops of dark hair move quickly about the room amidst laughter and excited, playful shouts. Howland is the first to attempt to climb into the bed with her, trying to jump up and failing, his little tongue hanging out of his mouth. 

“Caught you!” Edric exclaims, coming up behind his brother and grabbing him at the sides. 

Howland goes limp on the side of the bed, slipping down slowly with peals of tickle-induced laughter. Arya winces as the sharp sound. 

“Alright, boys. Enough now,” she says gently. 

“I caught him!” 

“I can see that.” 

Howland, in retaliation, throws himself at his older brother. “Got you!”

“Howl, please.”

Her son as the decency at least to look guilty in light of her second admonishment, but she still sees the willfulness behind his grey eyes. Free from his brother’s grip, he crawls up onto the bed with her, settling against her side happily. Arya is content to run her fingers through his hair soothingly and kiss his head. 

“Father says it’s time to break our fast. He told us to wake you or you’d sleep all day.”

“Sleep all day? Does your father think I’m lazy? Tell him I’ll see him in the yard so that I can defend my honor.” 

Dutifully, Edric runs through the doors into the solar where she presumes Jon waits for them. Sitting up a little further onto the pillows, she pulls Howland more tightly against her, her arms around him as she rocks him and hums him a song. Soon he will outgrow this as his brother did, but for now she will savor having him in her arms while he will still let her. 

Edric bursts back into the room not a moment later, looking very serious in his important role as messenger between the king and queen. “Father says you’re too fat to ‘fend yourself.” 

“Jon Stark!” she shouts, flushed. “Come say that to my face!” 

The bark of laughter she hears from the other room fills her with warmth. Arya only has to wait a moment for him to appear, Harlon sleepy in his arms. Jon’s smile is radiant, so much so that she might beg him to bed her later, before the council meeting. She will hold him hostage with her lips, with her breasts, with her cunt, until someone sends Sam to retrieve him from their chambers. It would not be the first time such a thing has happened at Winterfell.

“You look wicked,” he says, coming around her side of the bed. “What are you thinking?” 

“I’m scheming.” 

“May the Old Gods and the New help us all,” Jon says, amused. 

“Our eldest said you had something to tell me?” 

Jon grins. “Aye, you’re too fat to fend me off with a sword, dear wife.”

“You did not seem to mind my belly so much yesterday.” 

“No, I quite like it.” 

He leans down, capturing her lips for a moment. Arya moves to deepen it just a little, only she feels a tug on her hair as Harlon reaches for her, trapped between them. As she takes him, Jon helps her untangle Harlon’s fat baby fingers from her hair. Once settled against her breasts, he closes his eyes, and Arya returns her other arm to Howland next to her. Jon sits on the edge of the bed, his hand first finding her belly and then her cheek before withdrawing. His fingers find hers, twinning them together against Harlon’s back. 

“It’s done,” he says, looking at her meaningfully. 

“What’s done?” Edric asks, crawling onto the bed and hooking his arms around his father’s shoulders. 

“The food,” Jon lies. “So your mother had better get up, or we won’t leave any bacon for her, will we?” 

“Go eat, pup. Your father and I will be out in a moment,” Arya tells Edric, and he is happy to oblige.

After Edric is safely out of the room, Arya turns back to Jon. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

She feels her lip tremble at that and kisses Harlon’s forehead to hide it away. Oh, Arya knew Jon would make good on his promise to her last night; rarely has he ever let her down. But this feels somehow different, like coming home to Winterfell after all those long years. She’s traveled this lonely road for so long, carrying her worries and nursing them—though not altogether willingly—like she had nursed her own babes.

The Dragon’s ghost gone from their lives, from her heart. She has a million questions for Jon, a million new concerns about what this turn means for them and their children and the North. But for now, she does not want to know, not yet. All she cares to hold her in heart right now is the babe in her belly, her sweet boys, and her husband, who would—as he has since the moment she entered the world—give her his whole world if only she asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks. Or at least for the time being. There's still a ton to be written in the 'verse, and I do have plans. But for now, I'm stepping away. I hope you've enjoyed to ride. 
> 
> I have a couple one-shots coming up, and then a new multi-chap, which will be a modern au. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated, and I'd love to know how you feel about this 'verse. Cheers!


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